As the Jarls of Quartzholm’s nearest neighboring provinces, they’d been invited to celebrate Winterfest and to witness Ragni and Utta’s betrothal. Solveig’s stag and Hafdan’s mountain cat banners hung half a span lower than Neven’s hawk did from the rafter over the dais, along with Magnus’ red boar. Many of Neven’s vassal lords had already arrived; their colors already decorated the walls. If both parties agreed, they’d hold Ragni’s and Utta’s betrothal ceremony in a few days. With any luck, Ragni would have a son planted in Utta by spring. Utta stood stiffly between her father and Neven, obviously feeling the insult that Ragni was not at her side. Magnus and Neven had long been friends, but that alone would not secure Utta’s good will. Ragni was not making a good start with his bride-to-be. Dahleven’s gaze swept the entrance again. Where is Ragni? For that matter, where was Celia? She should have been present as well.
